


(What's the Story) Morning Glory?

by canistakahari



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Fluff, Hair, M/M, Sleepiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:52:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim can't get enough of Bones's hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(What's the Story) Morning Glory?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thistlerose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/gifts).



McCoy’s hair exists in contradictory states.   
  
It begins the day practically immaculate, ready for whatever a new day might throw at him.  
  
Jim catches him blow-drying it before Alpha shift, standing half-naked and damp in front of the sink, the hairdryer in one hand and a comb in the other, implements working in harmony to ruthlessly iron out snarls and tangles.   
  
“What are you doing?” asks Jim, dumbfounded. He barely touches his own hair. He respects it. It respects him. It’s short enough to be entirely self-sufficient, but just long enough to keep his head warm.   
  
“Eliminating a cowlick,” says McCoy. He’s got a pinched look of concentration on his face, the same one he gets when he’s cooking dinner or reading an article. When his hair is dry and straight, McCoy effortlessly parts it in the same place he always does, and then moves on to flossing and brushing his teeth.   
  
Jim quietly retreats from the bathroom.   
  


oOo

  
  
By about noon, structural integrity begins to fail, effectively mirroring the progress of their current mission.  
  
Strands of hair escape to fall across his forehead, no matter how many times McCoy pushes them back into line, and the cowlick he’d beaten into submission that morning is resurfacing with a considerable degree of hilarity. When he turns his head away from Jim to glare at the view-screen, and, by extension, all of space and time in general, Jim realises there’s a good portion of hair just behind his ear that’s standing on end, like he’s been running his fingers through it and tugging in frustration.   
  
Jim gets the sudden and debilitating urge to run his own fingers through the thick brown of McCoy’s hair. He even gets as far as reaching out, but then McCoy turns back towards him and barks, “What the hell are you staring at, Jim?”  
  
Damn Bones and his preternatural senses.   
  
 _Abort! Abort! You are on the_  fucking bridge,  _Jim, ABORT._  
  
Jim’s hand abruptly changes course. “You’ve got a thing,” blurts Jim, swiping so hard at an invisible bit of fluff on McCoy’s shoulder that McCoy takes a half-step backwards. “There. I got it. The thing.”  
  
McCoy’s mouth twists into that strained half-smile he gets when he’s entertaining professional worries with about 90% of his brain but still has 10% left for some fond exasperation to direct Jim’s way. “Thanks,” he drawls. “I’m sure it was touch-and-go there for a second. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have about eight thousand vaccine variations to test and I can’t wait to burst all the blood vessels in my face when none of them do jack-shit. Ten credits say I manage to create one that does something completely unrelated to what it’s supposed to do. #345 seems like it would make a pretty good—”  
  
Delicious meat substitute? Hair wax? Soufflé?   
  
Jim isn’t gonna kid himself, he’s got no clue. He abruptly loses track of what McCoy is saying because as he starts to leave the bridge, his fingers coming up to clutch reflexively at that hunk of unbearably precious on-end hair, and Jim’s gaze travels there with magnetic force and watches avidly as McCoy keeps grumbling under his breath, apparently not bothered if Jim has stopped listening. Because he totally has.

oOo

  
  
At 1600 hours, McCoy comms the bridge, and with great relish, Jim pulls him up on the view-screen.   
  
“Report, Dr. McCoy.”  
  
Christ, he looks tired. And annoyed. Annoyed and tired. His mouth is tightly pursed and his eyes are bloodshot and his hair—  
  
Fuck, Jim loves McCoy’s hair.  
  
It looks like he fell asleep with his head in his arms. Half of it is smashed down like he’s been wearing a hat and the other half is sticking up in adorable tufts at all sorts of contrary angles, pulled and tugged there by habitual motions of his hands. The only thing still intact is the ever-present part, and his bangs have fallen completely into his eyes. Jim is familiar with this part of the day. It’s when McCoy’s haircare vigilance collapses in a storm of  _just can’t be fucked anymore_.  
  
“Still no luck, captain,” McCoy says with a sigh. “I might as well be throwing marshmallows at this virus, for all the good it’s doing.”  
  
“Well, keep me updated, Bones,” says Jim. “Maybe you’ll end up making s’mores.”  
  
McCoy blinks at him owlishly. “I don’t know what that means. Go away, Jim.”  
  


oOo

  
  
Everything quickly goes to hell about half an hour later, and Jim doesn’t stumble through the door of their quarters until it’s well past 2300 hours. He knows McCoy went off shift a little while earlier, after a series of small disasters in Medical that Bones, M’Benga, and Chapel spent the better part of the evening fixing with what Jim is confident was the very definition of BAMFitude, and that there is now a viable vaccine for the virus that’s been wreaking havoc on Starbase 2.   
  
Jim doesn’t notice him right away, the way the lights are down so low, but as he skirts the couch, he spies a socked foot and a ruffle of hair, and there’s McCoy, sprawled out on his back along the length of the couch in boxers and a t-shirt, a PADD lying on his chest, his face turned to the side and his mouth parted as he breathes evenly.   
  
Jim’s mouth slips into a lop-sided smile and he walks over to him, finally giving in to his desire to pass his fingers through the unquantifiable mess of hair on McCoy’s head, stroking gently through the soft strands. McCoy murmurs in his sleep, turning his head into the contact, and then his eyelashes flutter and he says, “Jim?” in a hoarse voice.   
  
“Hey,” says Jim quietly. “Sit up for a second.”  
  
Judging by the look on McCoy’s face he’s about seconds away from telling Jim to take a long walk off a short pier, but he ends up obeying clumsily, sending the PADD on his chest skittering to the floor, and Jim scoots onto the couch, tucking McCoy’s head into his lap. McCoy makes a noise of content assent and then his eyes slip closed again as Jim’s hand drifts into the wilds of his hair, petting and stroking. After a moment of this, Jim’s other hand settles over the steady beat of McCoy’s heart.   
  
“Good work today,” murmurs Jim.  
  
“Mmm. Clusterfuck of catastrophes,” slurs McCoy.   
  
Jim brushes McCoy’s bangs off his face like he’s wanted to all day, letting his fingers trail over the curve of his brow. “Nice alliteration. Still. You guys came through.”  
  
“Mmm,” repeats McCoy noncommittally, but he’s smiling now, and Jim keeps carding his fingers through his hair even after McCoy falls asleep again, comforting them both.


End file.
